Saudade
by medella
Summary: "Presenting Daenerys Stormborn, of the House Targaryen, Queen of Slaver's Bay, Rightful Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Chains, and Mother of Dragons," a female voice calls. The words echo through the silence, carried by the wind. Jon eyes this so-called queen. D/J
1. i

_Lascivious grace, in whom all ill well shows,  
Kill me with spites, yet we must not be foes._

 **\- William Shakespeare,** ** _Sonnet 40._**

* * *

 ** _i._**

* * *

The first time he sees her, she is on one of her dragons – this one a towering monstrosity of red and black– and looking both a goddess and a beggar.

He's heard about her – this famed Mother of Dragons. Although the whispers paint a portrait of a warrior queen with eyes as cold as winter and wrath as mighty as her beasts; the woman before him is tired, to say the least, in ragged clothes that cling to her like sweat, unkempt and bloody. There is no crown upon her head, but as her beast lands on Castle Black, the men kneel anyway. It is not for her, he knows, but for those she calls her children.

"Presenting Daenerys Stormborn, of the House Targaryen, Queen of Slaver's Bay, Rightful Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Chains, and Mother of Dragons," a female voice calls. The words echo through the silence, carried by the wind. Jon eyes this so-called queen.

She dismounts her dragon with grace – far too much grace, he thinks – and walks toward him and his black brothers. There are others behind her, not many, but enough. _Her garrison,_ Jon realizes. _Of course, she_ is _a queen of sorts._

Her rags do little to protect her from the fierce cold, but she manages to brave it. When she walks, even the snows seem to bow. She is followed by an aged man in mail and three other men, copper-skinned and robust.

Around him, several Night's Watch men kneel; the others stand, awestruck by her dragons and some by her. _It is not oft one sees a dragon in their lifetime,_ he muses, _even more so three of them led by a woman._

She comes to a stop in front of him, and Jon cannot help but think how she is still standing in this bitter weather dressed in near-rags. A proper lady (which, truth be told, he isn't sure _what_ is) would have been bundled in as many cloaks as could be. She is not. Her silver-blonde hair is loosely tied back and gently flaps in the wind– almost like a banner.

Her voice is clear and commanding. _The voice of a leader._ "You are?"

"Jon Snow," he replies. _Your Grace?_ "Lord Commander of the Night's Watch."

Her gaze is piercing, the violet vibrant. "Jon Snow." His name rolls off her tongue hesitantly, as though she is experimenting it. He wonders how much she knows of Westorosi customs – and of bastard names.

Her eyes dart over him and his black attire. "And who do you bow to, Lord Snow?"

Jon hesitates, cautiously eying her garrison and dragons. _Will she set them on us if we answer wrongly?_ The only man he has bowed to was his father, Eddard Stark – but he was now in the crypts of Winterfell. And Stannis, at a point. _Who do I bow to now? You?_

"I am a man of the Night's Watch, my lady," he concedes at long last, never breaking eye contact, "and I have sworn to hold no lands, no crowns, and no kings. I serve the Watch, and nothing more."

Her displease is evident, but it disappears as quickly as it comes. "I understand," she flatly replies. She looks over his shoulder, to his brothers in their various states. "And these are your men?"

"No, my brothers of black. We are the Night's Watch. Or what is left of it, at least." _The Others took the rest._ "We welcome you with open arms, my lady."

Her eyebrows rise and for the briefest moment, her steely gaze softens. "I . . . see. Allow me a moment, Lord Snow."

She strides over to the aged knight, and their conversation is hurried and terse. Jon hears voices murmur behind him: "How long does she expect to keep us here? Aye, she's a beauty –a beauty with _dragons_ – but if she thinks she can keep us here as much she bloody likes, the whore's – "

A hush falls over when the Mother of Dragons returns. When their eyes lock, Jon sees the coldness slightly falter, and suddenly she is human, not a fearless conqueror; when she speaks, it is kind yet authoritative, and her words ring through the silence.

"I thank you for your hospitality, Lord Snow. We will be needing some warm beds, furs, food, and a bit of wine. And some meat, if there is any to be spared." There is a faint smile on Daenerys Targaryen's lips. "We've travelled a long way, and my dragons are _hungry."_

* * *

Three days into her stay, he is summoned to her chambers.

The past three days have been littered with excited chatter and whispers. Most speak of her unearthly beauty – "have you _seen_ her eyes?!" – others of her fearful garrison – "I've seen 'em guard her room day and night, it's like those fuckers never sleep!" – but all of them bring up the same subject at a point or another – her dragons.

As he walks, brothers swarm him. Some cautious, afraid of provoking their lord, others with zeal. To them Jon is more than their Lord Commander and black brother; he is their friend. (Or _was_ , he somberly thinks. Those days are gone. _Kill the boy and let the man be born)_.

"Do you think she's goin' to show you the dragons?"

"D'you think she'll show you what she wears under 'em horse savage rags?"

"Aye, wouldn't mind lettin' her ride me for the night—"

"M'lord—"

Jon is already ahead of them, and their voices are slowly fading away. As he climbs the rickety steps to the King's Tower, a feeling of dread fills him. The last time he had been summoned here, there was an offer of legitimacy and a title to go with it. _What do you have for me, Daenerys Stormborn?_

She is deep in conversation with her knight when he enters, and they both turn towards him.

"Jon Snow," Daenerys says. "I was beginning to think you had refused my offer."

"Never, my lady." Long gone are the bloodied rags, the woman before him is draped in a fine crimson dress encrusted with rubies, the neck a deep gash that exposes skin, pale and creamy. Castle Black does not have an array of women's clothing to choose from, and this one is one of the Red Woman's, he notes. His stomach twists at the sight of it.

"Leave us, Ser Barristan," she tells her knight. The old man gives Jon a scathing look as he leaves the room, the door slamming. _He doesn't trust me_ , he realizes. _Of course, why would he? He knows what I am._

The last of the Targaryens stand before him in all her glory. Her gaze pierces him in ways no sword could. "Most bow before their queen," Daenerys comments almost innocently. "Although, I have an inkling that I am not yours."

Jon winces; of course, why else would he be here?

"Forgive me . . . Your Grace," he hastily mutters, looking down at his snow-covered boots. "We are sworn to bow to no kings or take any houses. The Night's Watch is – "

"I know what it is," she says, taking a step towards him. There is laughter (or is it mockery?) in her voice. "Although I cannot say I am surprised. Why would a Stark ever kneel to a Targaryen?"

It feels like a slap to the face, a pail of cold water. Taken aback for a moment, he harshly retorts, "I am no Stark, Your Grace."

"No, you're not." She is standing in front of him now, and while they are not of a height, he still feels her breath on his face. _She smells of fire and sweetness,_ he ruefully thinks. _There were only two people who smelt of that: one died with an arrow in her heart and the other..._ "But your father was. And they say sons take after their sires. So tell me again, Jon Snow – are you a Stark?"

 _. . . when you return, you need only bend your knee, lay your sword at my feet, and pledge yourself to my service, and you shall rise again as Jon Stark, the Lord of Winterfell . . ._

 _Winterfell._ Winterfell with its cold stone walls and snow white grounds; the serene godswood and bustling halls. He can almost hear it all again. The ringing laughter, the clang of swords, the howl of wolves in the night – smiling faces, everywhere, as vivid as they once were. The smell of freshly baked bread, the feel of being tackled to the ground. Arya's shrill laughter, Sansa's shrieks of complaint and how _I'm going to tell Mother,_ Bran, Rickon, Robb— _it was home._

And it was no more. The grey tentacles of the kraken writhe and flail, slick and shiny. They crawl through windows, the glass shattering into millions of pieces, and break down walls. The stench of burning fills the air, and the wail of women and children accompany it; like blood on snow, the darkness spreads: slowly, and then all at once. The faces of joy crack like the kings in the crypts. He feels cold.

 _Winterfell is gone,_ he remembers. _There is nothing left but ghosts and ash._

The words come to him quicker than they should've. "My brothers were," _Robb with snow melting in his hair,_ "and my sisters," _Skinny little Arya and prim and proper Sansa,_ " my lord father," _We'll talk when I return,_ "I cannot say for my lady mother. And my uncle," _come north with me, Jon_. "There were all Starks, trueborn, with the blood of the First Men. But I am not, Your Grace." The words cut him deeper than any sword could and blood gushes from the wound. "And I have no wish to be."

 _I gave it all up when I said the words._

There is silence. For what seems like hours, the queen does not speak. She simply eyes him, and Jon returns the gaze. She truly is beautiful, he notices. Apart from her commanding demeanor, her eyes are breathtaking, her body is one knights sing of, and she is as fierce as she is caring. _Like Ygritte. "D'you remember that cave? We should have stayed in that cave, Jon Snow. I told you so . . ."_

When she finally speaks, it is soft – as gentle as a whisper and kinder than he could have imagined, and the words she say burn themselves into his mind and light a fire in his heart he had long since extinguished.

"Have you ever ridden a dragon, Jon Snow?"

* * *

 **Largely incomplete but with this being my little brainchild for around 3 years, I've got a fair bit written up and thought it was time to share. Let me know if you want to read more. Reviews are always appreciated.**


	2. ii

_If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood  
_ _Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,  
_ _Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud  
_ _Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,—  
_ _My friend, you would not tell with such high zest  
_ _To children ardent for some desperate glory,  
_ _The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est  
_ _Pro patria mori._

 **\- Wilfred Owen, _Dulce et Decorum Est_**

* * *

 ** _ii._**

* * *

They whisper about them. Never in front of him; no, no one would dare, but when his back is turned, they gossip and _giggle_ like giddy maidens.

He does not care, truth be told. He has other pressing matters – debts to be paid to the Iron Bank for one thing – and she is nothing more than a figure of authority to him. Like Stannis ( _you need only bend your knee)_ , he says his courtesies and bow when needed, but she isn't his queen anymore than she is the realm's.

He heeds her summons, drinks her wine, and even walks her around the grounds when she commands it. But when they speak, it is as a lord and queen: cold, calculating, and impartial.

"Lord Snow," she greets him when he meets her in her chambers that day. This time she is dressed in Dothraki garb: painted vest and sandsilk trousers. How she endures the cold, he cannot begin to fathom. A fire burns in the hearth, but the room is still chilly. She does not seem to notice nor mind.

"My lady," he responds, dropping to a knee.

"You may rise."

When he does, she calls for mulled wine. "Sit, Lord Snow," she says, gesturing to one of the chairs.

"I would rather stand, Your Grace," he stiffly replies. His eyes briefly slip to the various maps strewn over the desk. Stoic Ser Barristan is present, as always. Growing up, Jon had heard many a tale about the famed knight renowned as Barristan the Bold. Now, with the knight himself present in the flesh, he finds himself sometimes in awe, other times in fear. Ser Barristan never speaks to him directly, but the looks he gives are enough. _"Let me give you some advice, bastard. Never forget what you are, for surely the rest of the world will not. Make it your strength; then it can never be your weakness. Wear it like armor, and it will never be used to hurt you."_

"As you wish." Daenerys gives him a look he has long grown accustomed to: a mixture between amusement and surprise. He does not return her gaze, instead choosing to scrutinize the Targaryen banner that hangs behind her.

Hastily sewn by Castle Black's finest craftsmen (and by _men,_ he meant the only two who _could_ sew), it is not as massive as banners customarily were, but large enough to pass as a decent one. The ancient three-headed dragon lies formidable against the stark black. Most of his black brothers have said that they do not care for the "Targaryen whore", but Jon feels as though her dragons had some part in this banner coming to fruition.

He clears his throat. "Your Grace, I was told you had matters to discuss."

Her eyebrows quirk up, and the amused façade melts away. She becomes a queen in the blink of an eye. "Yes, I do. Tell me, Lord Snow, what do you know of this . . . Targaryen pretender rising in the east?"

 _Of course._ News of the one who has claimed to be Aegon VI risen from the dead have spread far and wide, of course it has to have reached the ears of the woman who has spent most of her life believing she is one of the last Targaryens. "Not a lot, my lady," he answers cautiously. "My men have heard tales—"

"—and tales are seldom anything but tales," she cuts in.

"Aye," Jon says, knowing that he is trudging on thin ice, "and yet the things _I've_ heard . . . and the ravens we've received seem to say otherwise. The Wall may as isolated from the Seven Kingdoms as can be, but we are not deaf, Your Grace. We hear of sellswords landing everywhere from the Stepstones to Dorne to _Dragonstone_. Whoever this so-called pretender truly is . . . he is unfazed and held back by nothing. The realm has never been more ripe for conquest, and he knows that." He leaves the rest unsaid, but it is as well known as the rest. _If he is truly who he claims to be . . . then his claim is far stronger than yours._

Daenerys turns her back on him. Up close, her hair is silvery-blonde, nearly white, he sees. Today it is in a braid with bells softly jingling from its ends. It suits her, he finds himself musing.

"I have dragons," she finally says. "This—this _pretender_ does not."

"So we've heard, my lady." _But if he does . . . gods save us all._

"There was another king here," she says suddenly, whipping around to face him. "The Usurper's brother, I'm told."

 _"_ _. . . and rise again, as Jon Stark, the Lord of Winterfell."_

No words come to him, and he stands silent. When he speaks, his voice is flat. "Yes," Jon says. "King Stannis Baratheon occupied the King's Tower for quite a period of time."

"I thought the Night's Watch held no king."

"He wasn't our king," he manages, the words cutting him deeper than they should have. "He was—he . . . he helped us when we needed him to, and in return we helped him."

"And what happened to this _king?"_ the Targaryen asks, curiously.

It is too much for him. He can feel hands tightening around his throat, suffocating him. A red sword slices through the darkness. The smell of fire fills his nostrils. Snake-like tendrils of ice crawl up his arms. Screams: terrible, loud, haunting. " _Then you know nothing, Jon Snow."_

"Forgive me, Your Grace," he chokes out in as much of a neutral tone as possible. "I – I would rather not speak of it."

"Very well," Daenerys says, her voice far softer than before. "Perhaps one day you will. I have no further need of you, Lord Snow, you are free to go." There is a glimmer of something in her eyes. _Sympathy? Or pity?_

He stiffly nods and turns towards the door. He all but slams it behind him.

It is only when he is outside, ankle-deep in snow, does he realize there are tears on his cheeks.

* * *

 **Thank you to all those who wanted to read more! I appreciate the follows and favourites, but know that a review - regardless of how simple - not only motivates me but also makes my day. Feedback feeds the writer, ahah. Please let me know what you think so far!**


	3. iii

_I should have loved a thunderbird instead;_  
 _At least when spring comes they roar back again._  
 _I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead._  
 _(I think I made you up inside my head.)_

\- **Sylvia Plath, _Mad Girl's Love Song_**

* * *

 _ **iii.**_

* * *

In his dreams, he is a man, a wolf, and then a man again.

It is the same dream every night. He hears her words, clear as day. Her red eyes cut through him, like a sword cutting through skin.

The night is young, the sky a shade of orange and red with wisps of white slicing through it. The ground beneath him is soft with mud and snow, and the trees that encircle him are tall and dark, like blocks of charcoal.

He looks down at his hands, only to find them frozen. The ice is coarse and rough, beads of frost lining it like lace. When he flexes his fingers, it splinters like glass. Underneath it, the thick sheen of blood catches his eye.

 _Ice, I see, and daggers in the dark. Blood frozen red and hard, and naked steel._

He opens his mouth to scream, but only hears a howl. When he looks down again, where had once been his feet is now snow. A raven _quork_ s, and he can _smell_ it.

He runs, and his surroundings become a blur. All the colors melt into one another, the wind slaps his face, and the smell of life, death, and the living fill him. He breathes in the musk of the earth and the reek of tender flesh and blood. The ground beneath him is soft and for the briefest of moments, he is free.

Coming to a stop, he can feel her before he sees her; her fiery hair elegantly windswept, her pale skin as unblemished as ever. The ruby around her neck pulsates, and when she opens her mouths, she _glows._

Blinded by the light, he takes a step back, only to fall flat on his back. This time, when he rises, he is a man again. And yet, he feels as hollow as one of Sansa's old dolls.

"Jon Snow," the red woman intones, her voice echoing.

The ravens take up the cry as well. " _Snow, snow, snow."_ He sees the dark figures in the sky; they circle around him, like carrion crows around corpses. The flapping of their black wings fills his ears, and their cries become screams.

"What do you want?" he manages to say. His voice reverberates in the silence, and he hears himself, half-confident and half-afraid. _Kill the boy and let the man be born._

When she laughs, the ground beneath his feet shakes. Her pale, thin fingers move and suddenly he is burning; what was once coldness becomes warmth; it creeps up and he feels it, feels _her._ He tries to take a step back, but finds he cannot budge.

" _You know nothing, Jon Snow,"_ she whispers, and the trees whisper with her. _Nothing, nothing, nothing—_

The fire begins at her feet, and snakes up the folds of dress like vines around a tree. Her face sloughs off her bones like wax dripping from candles, the blood a rich crimson that smokes in the night air. Another woman, another wound.

"D'you remember that cave?" Ygritte whispers.

She isn't truly the wilding girl, he sees, her hair is perfectly done and piled in the style of high ladies, and her clothes are of far finer silks than the red woman's. Her face is fair and, like the other woman's, glows _._ "We should've stayed in that cave . . ."

"Leave me be," Jon spits, but it comes out more of a whisper than a command. "Leave me _be."_ He fumbles for Longclaw, but pain shoots through him when he attempts to move. A grunt is all he manages.

"I saved you, Lord Snow," she says, but no longer in Ygritte's voice, but Melisandre's. "I saved you, and yet you could not find it in yourself to save _me._ Your own savior. I warned you, Jon Snow. _I warned you."_

The red-haired woman opens her mouth. A language spills from her lips like liquid. It almost sounds like a song – a poisonous song that deafens those who hear it.

The _quork_ s grow louder and more fervent. He barely has time to look up before they come onto him; their knife-like beaks peck at him, piercing flesh and drawing blood. They wrap around him like a cloak, their wings rough and they claws sharp. But the voices are the worst.

" _. . . you haggle like crone with a codfish, Lord Snow. Did Ned Stark father you on some fishwife?"_

 _"_ _. . .it should've been you . . ."_

 _"_ _. . . stick 'em with the pointy end . . ."_

 _"_ _. . . I am the sword in the darkness. I am the watcher on the walls. I am the fire that burns against the cold . . ."_

 _"_ _. . . for the Watch . . ."_

 _"_ _. . .keep them from me, and I will cut out your bastard's heart and eat it . . ."_

 _"_ _. . . turncloak, traitor's son, bastard, bastard,_ bastard _. . ."_

And then he hears her. Through all of the voices and _quork_ s _,_ the screams and the flapping of wings, he hears her voice. It fills him with something, something he has never felt before, at least in these dreams.

 _This isn't how it goes,_ he thinks to himself, astonished. _The same dream every night . . . why should this night be different from the rest?_

He feels fire, but not the kind that burns, but the kind that _heals._ She is speaking the same tongue as the red woman's, but instead of it worsening the burn, it lessens it. The ravens melt off one by one, their wings becoming dark mud. The pain leaves as well, and at long last he sees her.

As she walks, the snows around her become pools of steaming water. Her silver hair is down and she wears a simple dress spun from what seems like sugar. On her head rests a glittering gold crown with three jeweled dragon heads protruding from the top. Nevertheless, it is her face that leaves him even more breathless.

"Afraid, Jon Snow?" Daenerys Targaryen comments in that half-amused tone of hers. "Have no fear, my dragons do only as I command."

It is only then he seems to notice the three hulking creatures behind her ( _how did I ever miss them?)._ They stand tall and ferocious; gold, green, and black. With their pools of molten gold and red, they eye him as a predator eyes prey.

"They're beautiful," he blurts before he can stop himself. As monstrous as they are, there is a certain . . . _splendor_ to these creatures.

"Yes," she says, her voice rich with laughter. "I suppose they are."

Gingerly, he takes a step towards her. Almost immediately, a rush of wind overtakes him and he is thrown back. He attempts to prop himself up with his hands, only to find them aflame.

Queerly, no scream comes to him. In fact, the flames almost tickle. He looks down at himself and is almost unfazed to find his black garb alive with dancing streams of red and orange. "Why don't I—"

"—feel anything?" she finishes for him. A laugh escapes her. The sound is sweet and mellow in the silence. "Fire cannot kill a dragon."

Confused, he looks up at her. "But I – Your Grace, I . . . I am no dragon."

Daenerys Targaryen looks at him with a faint sad smile. "Oh," she says, almost in a whisper, "you know nothing, Jon Snow."

This time, when the flames surround him, he can feel them, and when he wakes, he screams.

* * *

 **As always, reviews are appreciated.**


	4. iv

_Lost names spill out.  
_ _Children engraved  
_ _in ash. A sea of blood.  
_ _Only you, tenderness,  
_ _stillborn, beneath  
_ _the skin of sleep._

 ** _-_ Myra Sklarew, _The Skin of Sleep_**

* * *

 _ **iv.**_

* * *

It is when she touches him he feels most vulnerable.

He isn't sure when he decides that, but it is one of the things that appear to just _happen_ and then stump him and leave him with more questions than answers.

They had been discussing the training regime for new recruits for the Watch when she had placed a hand on his shoulder. The touch was so sudden and so _there_ that he had almost jerked. Somehow, he could feel her heat even through his layers and layers of clothing.

"You've done well, Lord Snow," Daenerys had said. "I hope them all to be of fighting caliber soon."

"As do I, Your Grace," he had hastily responded. She removed her hand, and for the briefest of moments, he had felt himself yearning for it have to have stayed a while longer.

But now; now is a completely different matter.

He lies sprawled on the wooden floor, chest bare and bloodied. A maester kneels over him, trying what he can to stem the blood; piling on cloth after cloth. The colors in front of his eyes blur into one, and the _pain..._

"M – m'lord..." the maester splutters out. "There is too much... t – too much b – b – blood. I need to... I need..."

He receives a grunt in response. Jon has long since bitten his tongue, and the taste of copper fills him. _So stupid,_ he thinks to himself. _Not again. I should've known._ After the first mutiny, _of course_ there would have been tensions brewing. _Of course_ some of them would object the queen taking up quarters here; most of them still had the bitter aftertaste of Stannis Baratheon's stay. And some bloody whoreson would always have a drink too many and decide to stage Robert's Rebellion come again. _Of course, of course, of course._

A black brother, four of the six would-be mutineers, and two of the queen's men are the final count. Jon does not intend to be added to that list.

"Do," he manages to spit out, "what you – seven _hells –_ need t _— ahhh._ " The words melt in his mouth, red spots dancing in front of his eyes. Every pore of him is alive with flame.

"Do what you must, maester," Daenerys Targaryen finishes for him. She kneels beside the maester, and through half-closed eyes, Jon can see concern etched on her face. Her purple eyes bore into him, and he feels so _exposed;_ like a naked man in battle, armed with only a rusting sword and shield. Ser Barristan is not with her this time; he had been assigned with the task of _dealing_ with the mutineers. For some reason, it gives him the slightest of comforts.

"I'm afraid I will n – need to use fire." The maester's fingers have become slick red snakes and _shake,_ gods damn him, as he presses down on the wounds. "I need to cl – close the wound. M'lord, it will—"

" _Do it,"_ the Lord Commander all but hisses. He makes the mistake of looking down at his torso: all he sees is ravaged skin and cloth, crimson and white, akin to aged metal. Bile rises in his throat.

"There will great pa—"

"Do as he says," the queen cuts him off sharply. She leans forward and places her hand on his bare arm, almost soothingly. That alone sends another jolt through him; how can one be so _warm?_

"Y-yes, Your Grace. Satin, get a b – blade and wine. I need to – to . . . fire. The blade. I— Someone will need to press d – down, pr- pressure... lest the blood—" His voice dies. _How did this one ever earn his chain?_ Jon feels the maester's hands leave his wounds, and suddenly he cannot breathe. Lines of white cut through his vision and he can feel the snow again, he can see tears streaming down Bowen Marsh's face, he can _feel_ the blades. _For the Watch._

More hands replace his; these are stronger, firmer, and much more effective than the man's soft things. Jon can almost feel the brush of hair – white-gold hair that glisters in the light, he sees – on his torso. He vaguely hears the maester attempting to argue but only to be brusquely cut off by the Targaryen queen. The hands press down harder. _Oh._

Suddenly, she is speaking to him. Her words are as clear as they were the first day they met, yet equally as soft.

"Lord Snow," she says – or at least, he thinks she does, "stay with us; it will all be over soon."

"I . . ." his words become grunts, but she plows on anyway.

"You were very brave out there," her voice is soft, "the men are very fortunate to have someone like you. If it were me, I would not have been so merciful."

He knows, of course; even some whispers cannot be ignored. The son of Jeor Mormont, the fabled suitor of the queen, doomed to exile by both Stark and Targaryen. _I wear his sword and carry his legacy. Gods forbid I share his fate._

She keeps talking. He tries to drown out everything but her voice. Somewhere along the line, he absent-mindedly realizes that she indeed could be one of the most beautiful women he has ever seen.

Minutes that feel like hours trickle by. Every sound becomes a drum beat, every voice a war horn. He becomes more and more aware of Daenerys' hands on him, on his body, touching him, _feeling_ him. A groan escapes him that almost has nothing to do with pain.

The maester returns at one point. Jon only catches a few choice phrases: "the wine", "immense pain", and "only the Seven." He feels Daenerys' hands slip from his torso, only to reach and grab his own. Gentle as ever; her fingers are wet with his blood.

"I apologize for this, Lord Snow," the maester mutters. "The wine, if you will."

It hurts more than he expected it to, and he screams when the liquid comes in contact with his tender flesh. He grips Daenerys' hand so hard, he fears he might break it.

"And now, the b – blade, Satin." Hazily, Jon can see the steward, in his hand a _thing_ of red and orange. He gives it to the maester, who mutters a fervent "This is will hurt" before bringing it down.

And how it does.

Jon has felt pain many a time. He has lived and died, he has loved and lost, he has feared and hoped—but nothing, not even the feeling of coming back to life could have compared to _this._

He howls, oh, yes. He howls and yells and jerks, but somehow, Daenerys only holds on tighter. It _burns;_ so much worse than the dragonfire in his dreams, worse than being thrown _into flames,_ it gnaws and claws at his insides and plunges every pore and crevice of him into a pool of fiery hot pain. Soon, the only thing he feels are the slick fingers holding onto his own.

It is just as the world goes white does he vaguely register her saying his name.

* * *

 **Thank you for reading so far! Your reviews mean the world to me. Have a great New Year's, lovelies. xo**


	5. v

_listening to the opening  
_ _and closing of the drawers  
_ _in the next room_

 _(of course there is always_  
 _danger but where_  
 _would you locate it)_

\- **Margaret Atwood, _The Circle Game_**

* * *

 _ **v.**_

* * *

Something changes after that event. Jon cannot pinpoint what exactly, but he feels it, and he thinks she does, too.

Now, when she speaks, it is softer. Her eyes are warmer when they meet his, and every now and then her customarily cool and commanding demeanor slips, and only the sun could rival the radiance of her smile.

Her stay descends into the fifth month. Some may even say he has become used to the sight of her; the glimpse of glittering white amidst a sea of dark curls, the faint scent of persimmons and some queer spice he cannot pinpoint she leaves lingering in rooms. His men still fear her, though, and even more distrust her.

 _And where do I stand?_ he asks himself as he watches her burst into cacophonous laughter at a jest by one of his brothers. _Who is she to me?_

When an invitation to sup with her arrives one night, he thinks he might be just about to find out.

The first he notices as he enters her chambers are the candles. Foreign to his eyes, they stand out against the black of the walls; beacons of colour and flame against a monotone canvas. They line the sills of windows and the fireplace; the stench of lavender oil, ambrette, and neroli rise from them. Oddly, Jon feels his vision begin to haze, as if hypnotized. _The East is truly as potent as they say_ , is one of the few coherent thoughts that come to him.

Her guards are there as well, of course, but layers upon layers of fur and metal shield their customary glazed copper skin. Jon can barely blame them; even as a Northerner, the Wall showed little mercy on him. He cannot begin to imagine the physical upheaval these pure-blooded sun-kissed men are going through.

In his study of the people protecting her, he almost forget _her._ The moment she comes forth, he feels it. He doesn't know how (and a part of him does not want to admit it nor know why) but he does, and the breath leaves his lungs as he turns to meet her gaze. If the candles had left him in a trance before, he fears not even Red Priests would be able to put a name to what he feels now.

Before stands him the Targaryen queen, draped in yards of verdant; her dress is kerseymere, courtesy especially of some of the more surprisingly lithe-fingered stewards of Castle Black. Having grown long tired of seeing such regality in the same old red rags, some of the black brothers offered her this new, albeit blindly measured, clothing perhaps in hopes of special privileges (at which Jon snorts, knowing exactly what kind the boys were expecting), but instead found themselves appointed as her official part-time tailors. Mostly out of the fear, they did not refuse.

The first thought he has is that the boys took far too much liberty with her clothing. It appears to be a bit too large for her small frame; the emerald green sleeves end a bit beyond her wrists and the splay of them nearly engulfs her calloused hands. The second thought is more of a silent thanks for the candles. They illuminate her figure, casting her in almost a ghostly light. The gold-white of her hair shines, waves of ivory. For a moment, he wishes he could touch them.

"Lord Snow," she greets him, a warm smile on her face. His reverie breaks far too quickly. "And here we thought you had lost the stomach."

"Never, Your Grace," he responds. "To refuse a guest is not in the blood of the North."

A single silver eyebrow quirks up. "Pray tell, then what is?"

"Is that why you invited me this eve? To rob me of the secrets of Winterfell?" Jon says lightly.

 _Gods, has there been a more beautiful laugh?_ "Perhaps," Daenerys Targaryen says, tone equally as light, almost playful. "Let us see where this evening takes us." She gestures to the table behind her, set up with ornate cutlery, an embroidered tablecloth, and – _help me_ – more candles. "Come, sit."

The Lord Commander does as he's told, taking his place opposite her on the table between them. Only two plates are set out before them, the rest of the space empty for presumably whatever food she has ordered for the meal. Some of her men know how to cook, Jon recalls, and they've been teaching some of the stewards in their spare time. A lot of the brothers complain of the reek of spices that spill from the kitchens, filling the air with nose-prickling aroma. It juxtaposes rather amusingly against the otherwise sullen mood of Castle Black. _She's everywhere, even in our bloody cooking._

"I've been meaning to properly talk to you for a while, Lord Snow."

"Is that not all what we do?" Jon says.

She calls for mulled wine. It stings the roof of his mouth with its unfamiliar tartness. "In a sense," Daenerys continues, drinking from her cup. "However, it has always been strictly about affairs of the Wall, the Night's Watch, and the like."

 _Where is she going?_ "As it should be so, my lady."

She cocks her head to one side, a small grin growing. "Is that what you think, Jon?"

Something about the way she says his name, the last word of her question, those three letters— shivers run up his spine, too involuntary. Jon downs the rest of his coarse wine in one gulp.

Daenerys gestures to one of her men for more wine and Jon almost stops her. His head has already begun to spin, but he maintains his composure. _I sense a long night ahead._

The food arrives – names of stews he can't remember and potatoes, oh, the potatoes – and he lets it sit idly before him. After having heard her words, he senses that she did not invite him solely for the purpose of dining with him. She's far too cunning for that. _This one's playing a game._

When she moves, the folds of her emerald green gown move with her. Jon watches. Jon drinks. It's warm. Too warm. He begins to stop minding; in her presence, he feels almost – dare he say it – _safe._ The candles help, too.

"I've heard much about the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch," Daenerys says, the smallest of glimmers of of flame in the violet glass of her eyes, "but very little of you."

Too much time has passed since he's played a game like this. He can't tell if it's the wine at work or just the veracity of her presence. "I fail to see the difference between the two, my lady."

"I think otherwise." Her voice is melodic; languid with something, a _something_ he can't put a gloved finger on. It lures him in, like a rope thrown to a drowning man. "To me, they are of different personas, different souls. After all, a title is merely a title."

The disbelief shows on his face. "I realize the ridiculousness of such a statement from the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, of course—" her head tilts, curiosity evident in her stare. "However, my interests do remain the same. Tell me more."

He already knows what she wants, but asks her to elaborate anyway; more for her than for himself. "About what, Your Grace?"

Her teeth are slightly crooked, he notices for the first time. It's only visible when she smiles. _A flaw at last._

"Why, about yourself, of course. Who are you, Jon Snow? What makes you so different from the rest?"

* * *

 **Wanted to slow things down a bit plus I'm abroad hence the shorter chapter... a teaser of what's to come, I guess? Updates will be a bit more sporadic now because exams this month, so reviews/motivation would be much appreciated. Shoutout to all the ghost readers for the favourites and follows, lots of love for you all but do come out of the shadows and let me know your thoughts now and then. Here's to making 2017 count.**


	6. vi

_Passing stranger! you do not know how longingly I look upon you,_  
 _You must be he I was seeking, or she I was seeking, (it comes to me as of a dream,)_

 **\- Walt Whitman, _To a Stranger_**

* * *

 _ **vi.**_

* * *

The air between the two rests, heavy. In it, Jon finds spice, foreign to his skin and self. On another night, he would've fled from it; reminded him too much of summer, the Summer Sea, and the woman. The warmest bloody woman he had ever—

"Have we lost you already, Lord Snow?"

He breaks from a reverie he cannot recall putting himself in. Daenerys' gaze is ardent, expectant. Her question lingers in the distance that separates them; musical, hypnotic, _dangerous._ A kind of danger he hasn't encountered in years. Its allure is strong, as strong as the candles in the room (a room that suddenly feels far too small, too small for the scale of both their bodies, their souls, their demons). He wants to resist. He knows he should resist.

So he answers.

"Not at all, Your Grace," Jon says, leaning back. "I fear I do not know what you mean by _different._ I am as mundane of a man as all the rest."

He feels her laughter in his bones; the wine tepid in his chest. "Now, you don't take me for a fool, do you? If the tales told of you are anything to go by, _mundane_ is perhaps the last word to use to describe yourself."

This time it's his turn to laugh. "Pray tell, what tales would those be?"

One of her lithe fingers circle the rim of her cup. "Why, there is no end to them. _Jon Snow,_ the Bastard of Winterfell, the Savior of the North— the man who died, but didn't."

The last words are laden with far too little and far too much at once. Daenerys senses his change of mood, and plows on instead of waiting for his response.

"I sense this is . . . an uncomfortable topic for you."

More food arrives (why it does escapes him, he's long lost the stomach, letting the stewed potatoes sit idle on his plate), and with it, more of her blasted mulled wine. Nonetheless, he drinks it. _Liquid courage._ All the battles he's fought suddenly pales in comparison to this; he feels naked, encircled by troops in armor, awaiting their signal to strike. The only woman that had affected him like this had red hair that fell across the milky skin of her neck; her gaze always stone, her demeanor always reserved. _Even till the end, even till_ her _end—_

"It is not one I prefer to oft converse about, no, Your Grace." Each syllable is more taut than the one before. "Forgive me."

"Understandable," the queen replies. "I can't imagine what it must have... felt like to come back."

"No." Someone keeps refilling his cup and for their existence, he is so very grateful. "You can't."

Like winter snow, silence falls. Palpable. A knife could cut it.. _Kill the boy and let the man be born._ Jon stares at the tablecloth, wondering if it is actually turning to liquid, or if it's his sight. _I saved you, and yet you could not find it in yourself to save me._ _I warned you._ More wine, more wine, _more—_

Skin.

Jon's head snaps up, the colours in the room suddenly far fuzzier. He can't understand what's happening, or how it happened. The distance between the two has gone from acres to inches. Her hand is on his hand. Bare. The sight of it pulsates, makes his head throb. She's soft, and so is her voice.

"What was it like?" Daenerys asks, her eyes full of something – _compassion? Curiosity? A warlord should not feel this tender._ "What did you see?"

The ground was cold and his blood colder. Bowen Marsh's tears had left tracks on the grime of his face. Each thrust had hurt less than the last, but his heart had ached. It ached with the crunch of snow, it threatened to burst out of his chest. By the time one of the daggers had found it, he had lost all feeling. He welcomed the earth. He embraced it.

"Darkness," Jon replies in a gravelly tone. "Darkness like never before. I could feel it. It wrapped itself around me, like a... like a bloody _shroud_ —"

First there was light; it had crept into his eyes like worms. Then it began to fade with a foreign, almost sickening gentleness. There had been salt on his lips.

"—and then there were voices. Some of them I did not recognize, some I wish I could not. Loved ones. Lost ones. Loved ones that had been lost. It was if they were... they were mocking me. Mocking the... the traitor. Pitying the traitor. Do you know what it feels like to be pitied by the dead?"

 _She_ had been there. For the most fleeting of moments, _she_ had appeared, only to dissolve into dust. She had said her words. She had wielded the final blow _herself—_

"—and then there was nothing. There was nothing. It was cold, it was dark, and then absolute nothingness. I was a being with no form. No substance. I was... I was nothing."

 _I saved you, and yet—_

"And then I was not." Colours begin to look like colours again. The tablecloth rests. "And then I was not, Your Grace. They killed me. My own men killed me, and I came back. Every night, I dwell on the same question. If I died a man, and became nothing, who did I come back as? What did I come back as? And what am I now?"

Only when he finishes does he fully realize the weight of his words. Jon doesn't dare look at her, this _queen._ She is fire and blood incarnate, and here he sits, nearly at tears. He feels stupid. Lackluster. _Curse this wine. Curse her touch. Curse it all to every one of the seven hells._

"Forgive me, Your Grace," he says again for what is perhaps the umpteenth time of this far too long night. "I fear the wine is not agreeing with me. With your permission, if I may retire for the—"

"Yes." Her reply is swift and hoarse. "Yes, that's fine." A throat clears. "We shall continue this another night, Jon Snow."

There it is again, those two words. Every time she says his name, he feels it under his skin. Names should not have this much power. Nothing should. _Had I a name before she had spoke it?_

"As you wish, Your Grace." Too loud is the chair as it scrapes. Too loud is the noise of her rising from her own. A warhorn is in his skull, and it wails.

He is mid-turn when he's drawn back. Whether it is one of her actions, or the candles, or her bloody presence (all of which Jon aches to distance himself from at the moment), he finds himself turning back. The Mother of Dragons is bathed in a pale glow. Unearthly. Ethereal. He wants to touch her, to prove to himself that she is just as human as she is, but he has a suspicion that he will be proven wrong.

"Thank you for your company tonight," she says, for the first time sounding almost unsure of herself.

"The pleasure was mine, Your Grace."

Jon expects that smile of hers to haunt him in his drunken stupor— in fact, he looks forward to it.

"Please," the woman before him insists, "formalities are for strangers. You may call me Daenerys."

" _Daenerys."_ The name is unfamiliar on his tongue, and sits awkwardly in the back of his mouth. However, Jon finds himself repeating it himself as he lumbers his way back to his chambers, aided by a black brother. _Daenerys._ It feels odd, but right. He welcomes the sanctity of his bed, finally free of her intoxication. _Daenerys._ Odd, but right. Abnormally right.

* * *

 **Well, here you go. I'm sorry about the awful delay, life hasn't been very kind to me and I've been void of inspiration. However, I recently binge-watched the entirety of the series again and am in the process of rereading the books and am positively brimming with enthusiasm for Jon and Dany. Expect updates once a month or so, because school and all that robs (or should I say... ROBBS, sorry) me of any time to sit down and think. Hope you enjoyed this, it took every ounce of creativity and will I had in me to write.**

 **On another note, if you're following the story (and I see that a lot of you are), please do leave a review. Doesn't take much time, and kind words are the only reason I managed to get this chapter out. Let me know what you think so far, I'd really appreciate it.**

 **Here's to (hopefully) no more months-long disappearances. Until next time!**


	7. vii

_**vii.**_

* * *

 _I saved you, Jon Snow._

These sheets have seen the dead, they've hosted the living. Now he writhes on them, caught in between a breath and a raging fever. She looms in front of his pulsating vision. Just as they always do, her eyes cry liquid light.

 _And yet you could not—_

He hasn't run in years. In centuries. He was born in this grass, atop the stone ruins. He wasn't taught to walk, only to never look back. The winds raised him, the snows, the blade; and in this moment it is all he can feel, can _remember—_

 _—_ _find it within yourself to save_ me.

Her hair is long, longer than he remembers it. It falls in crimson waves, peculiarly scragglier than usual. The ends are frayed, the roots pale. The Red Woman's skin is sallow like milk, worn down. In a departure from her typical regal garb, she stands in weathered grey, the tattered fabric clinging to her loosely. Her hands – taker of many a life – are bound with rope. Nonetheless, the ruby at her neck is ever-present, a granted sole right.

Melisandre stands in the snow, a ring of armed brothers encircling her. They are at Castle Black, and the air is still. A crowd has formed; men, battered, bloody, battle-weary. The fighting ended four days ago, but some of the men still bear the very rags they fought in. _Blood on every sleeve,_ Jon recalls. _A crack in every shield._

He finds himself on one of the dark-wooded balconies, the sky weeping crystals. From here, he has a good view. The perfect view. Before him lie a sea of faded black and rusted steel. They surround a platform of logs, in the center of which juts out tall a single slender wooden stake. At its base, a man with a torch. His voice carries, deep. A voice Jon knows too well. It is his own.

"Bring her forward," the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch intones.

Jon watches himself. He remembers it far too vividly; even now, as he stands, watching the scene unfold before his hazed eyes, he remembers the cold. He remembers the heat of her unrelenting presence; her eyes drawn downwards.

She moves languidly, as if each step is more calculated than the one before it. They lead her up the steps and she does not resist. They tie her to the post and she does not resist. Jon Snow begins his speech of condemnation and she does not resist. The Red Woman simply does as done with her, her gaze empty and directionless. From his balcony, Jon takes in her weary form. _She looks defeated._

"...therefore on these charges, I hereby condemn the Lady Melisandre to death."

The Jon in his dream's closing words linger. The only sound is that of the soft crunch snow underneath anxious feet. One heartbeat. Two. A horse neighs.

"Do you have any final words, Red Priestess?" he asks her, turning to look at her tied, almost vulnerable form.

On the balcony, invisible to mortal eyes, to the eyes of these ghosts, Jon watches with dread. A sharp pain blooms in his chest. _Gods curse me, why did I ask her that? What a life of serenity I could have lived without having heard her, what a life—_

Slowly, her head comes up, her scarlet locks shifting, shifting; her face comes into view, and her eyes are endless pools. Even from up here, Jon can register the power of her stare. He knows its potency at breaking the human will. The Jon in front of her, however, still stands blissfully ignorant.

When she speaks, her voice is soft. Somehow, though, it is soft but brittle; it is harsh with truth, heavy with unnamed emotion.

"It is from the flame we are given life by the Lord," the priestess begins. "From the flames we are born, and to the flames we must return."

 _A palace of obsidian glass stretches without end. A single lit candle is reborn a thousand times over in the shards. Perpetual light._

"You may think the worst has passed," she continues, this time accompanied by a gentle breeze, "but you are wrong. The true enemy approaches."

 _Mountains, jagged. Fingerless men with ice for ribs leap off and into the deep. Atop it are four horsemen, an eerie pallid glow emanating from their exposed bones and blue eyes. They wait, expectant._

"Winter has come, and with it comes the War for the Dawn. A war you cannot win without light. A war you cannot win without the Prince that was Promised, the undead king himself—"

 _A bronze ringlet rests atop a head of curls, only to come off and rest atop a bed of auburn waves. A wolf banner cascades down a wall, triumphant._

"Jon Snow."

Both look at her, one almost forcefully. Even tied to the stake, Melisandre retains her aura of mystique and malice. Her unwavering etherealness is as prominent as ever; snowflakes rest on her pink lips. She does not smile. She does not plea.

"What was done was done in the name of the Lord," she says, this time directly to the Lord Commander. "I am but his eternal servant. Servants are mortal, and it is mortal nature to err. It is also mortal nature to forgive. Without compassion, man is nothing but a shell. Godless and lost. The war must be won. The war must be won."

She lifts her head to bare her neck. The ruby there throbs, the most vibrant Jon has ever seen it. The skin around it has begun to redden, but if she can feel it, she does not show it. She leans back and Jon calls for fire.

Every time he dreams this dream, it gets worse. He can feel the torch in his hand, he can feel the heat licking away at the wood. Jon doesn't want to, but watches. At first, the flames are slow. They dance with hesitance. Melisandre's stance does not falter. She stares at the Lord Commander, and both of him stare at her.

When they reach her, she does not scream. The smell of burning flesh rises, and some black brothers turn away. In his peripheral vision, Jon sees Ser Davos Seaworth turn and disappear behind a door. The colours before him are beginning to blur and he can feel the telltale headache forming. _Wake up, wake up. Before she says it. Wake up, seven hells, wake_ up—

The air is heavy with ash. The flames roar as they climb up Melisandre's modest grey robes. She fidgets violently but keeps her calm. Her silence will later haunt him, it will cave in the walls around him and wrap its bitter fingers around his throat. _Wake up, you bloody_ fool—

"I saved you, Jon Snow!"

It is a wail, her sole scream. Her voice is ravaged, hoarse, almost that of an animal. She writhes as the fire inches closer to her pristine form, now host to a damned soul. He wants to claw the noise out, get the smell out of his nose. Snakes climb up his arms. Blood. Daggers in the dark.

"And yet you could not find it within yourself to save _me!"_

 _A woman lies tangled among stained sheets, her chest slowly rising and falling. Her fingers twitch. A sword lies against her bed, the blade wet with blood. Her cracked lips move but make no noise. Fire pours through her windows and set the ground ablaze. He is a man, a wolf, a man again. Then he soars through clouds, the air alive with warhorns. A crown of blue winter roses fall on a lap. A cry pierces the air. Flesh as it cooks. King's blood._ King's blood—

"—my lord, my lord!"

Jon jolts awake, sweat in every orifice of his body. Breathing has become a task. Reality feels foreign. It takes him a good few minutes to register Satin's boyish face before him, his features slowly taking form.

"What is it?" Jon asks in a sluggish voice. "It is well before daybreak, Satin. What is it that is so urgent—"

"I was sent for you, my lord," Satin explains in a hurried tone. "They did not know what else to do. I – I apologize. I didn't mean to—"

"Go on then, spit it out," the Lord Commander says as he manages to get himself upright. Every joint in his body aches. He feels like stone, a fraction of the man he was in the dream. A fraction of who he was before the flames, before women reborn in fire came along.

The steward's words are frantic and out of breath. After he says them, Jon feels the air leave his lungs. Consciousness hits him almost immediately, like a knife to the gut.

"There's two women at the gate, my lord. They said they're looking for you, Lord Commander of the Night's Watch; son of Ned Stark. One of them... one of them says she's Sansa Stark, my lord. Your sister."

* * *

 **Look, both canon divergence AND a bit of book/show amalgamation. Something fore everyone. Still figuring out the pacing of this, but I hope you enjoyed the chapter nonetheless. Big thank you for all the support so far! Do leave a review.**


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